IN THE HEADING "BOOKSHELF" we ask the heroines about their literary preferences and publications, which occupy an important place in the bookcase. Today, the director and playwright of Teatra.doc, the curator of the Civil Theater direction (also known as the Department of Pain), the director of the performances Odnushka in Izmailovo, Accomplice, When We Came to Power, Your Calendar / Torture ", curator of the festival of documentary projects" The Hunt for Reality "Zarema Zaudinova.
INTERVIEW: Alisa Taezhnaya
PHOTOS: Alexander Karnyukhin
MAKEUP: Anastasia Pryadkova
director and playwright Teatra.doc
I had an amazingly cool grandfather, who
I loved it. He read syllables, wrote "karova" and in general
I was indifferent to literature if it was not me who read him
At the age of five, my older sister taught me to read, because she really wanted to get rid of me: she was already nine then, she had to play with me, and from childhood I knew how to create problems and troubles out of the blue. Books turned out to be a salvation for everyone: sisters, parents, me. With books, from a violent misunderstanding, I turned into the quietest person in the world.
My "criminal" literary taste was shaped not by the school or the teachers, but by two people. A mother who always said: "You see how calm children all have." And I thought, "Damn, what's wrong with me?" And I also had an amazingly tough grandfather whom I adored. He read syllables, wrote "karova" and, in general, was indifferent to literature if it was not me who read to him. He collected broken toys - on the fence there was a special shelf where there were dolls without heads, the bodies of bears and bunnies with severed limbs, and some arm or leg of a Barbie doll. He found them on the street and carefully collected the "outcasts" in this house - so they found their last love. So I fell in love with the broken and the "abnormal" forever.
I lived in a small village in the Altai Territory, the Internet came to us when I was in the tenth grade - before that I cheerfully and passionately gutted the rural library. Tightly sat on science fiction. Then she switched to the classics: I read books from the high school curriculum for my older sister while she hung out with friends, and in the morning I retell the content to her - such a living collection in a summary.
At the age of twelve, I found a dusty collection of poems in the library, opened it to a random page, it read “They will bury it, bury it deeply, the poor mound will grow with grass” - and fell in love with Blok. Then my adored grandfather died, and I did not understand why this happened. The librarian shied away when a twelve-year-old girl asked her for a book "about death" and told me that it was for adults. I almost stopped communicating with everyone - I just sat in books; then she thundered into the village hospital, where the doctors could not understand what was wrong with me, they were giving me vitamins and feeding me glycine. The books were taken away so that I would not even try to read and “strain my brain”.
I thought that I would never be able to read again, and did not understand why then live. After that my sister called me "crazy", I fought with her because of this, but I fell in love with the "abnormal" even more - my people. After many years, I forgot how to read, watching the letters crumble in my head - and the horror from this became the last frontier, after which I went to a psychiatrist, was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and understood why such a bookish love for those who are considered “crazy. " And how the world collapses, crumbling like letters in my head.
Blok has remained one of my favorite poets forever. From that first poem in the dusty library, I made the habit of scrupulously finding everything connected with my literary loves - biographies, diaries, memoirs - and stuffing them into my inner shelves.Then I spread to Byron, and for my whole life it remained an inexplicable mystery, why suddenly Blok is only “poems about a beautiful lady” (written by an eighteen-year-old gentle boy), and Byron is an icon of sad demons. Both had a wonderful sense of humor.
I am always not sure that the world exists in principle, so I am constantly looking for confirmation of this - in books and around - I grab the pieces of evidence and shove them into my pockets. All the books are on my inner shelves "panic", "loneliness", "madness" and "death"; there is a separate one - "a graveyard of shitty texts", written so badly that they will never be forgotten. In essence, all this is about consciousness and those points where it collapses and falls: where? Why? What happens in this second and in all the others that do not end and end at the same time forever?
I am always not sure that the world exists in principle, so I am constantly looking for confirmation of this -
in books and around
"Noise and Fury"
Of course, I have “Noise and Fury” on my shelf “madness”, and my adored Faulkner himself - on the shelf “despair”. This is a six-volume book that I love most dearly. Once the first part of "Noise and Fury", written on behalf of Benji - a man with special features, - turned all my ideas not only about literature, but also about time. Since then, I adore the discreteness and fragmentary nature of the text - for me this is how it becomes more authentic, perhaps: it is more like a person's consciousness and how it works in general. Here I am typing, but I am haunted by the phrase that it was very difficult and bad for one dog to live with a person with a mental disorder. And now I feel very sorry for the dog, and then for myself, which is also in the camp of "unstable", then I scold myself for self-pity and remember that I am generally talking about Faulkner. And all this is a few seconds of a riot on a ship of electrons in the brain. An amazing world, a brilliant writer.
"Waiting for oblivion"
Another god of mine is a text that exists according to the laws of human consciousness (that is, without them). When from scraps, scraps and even gaps, something is born and dies along with the text. “Words brought by speech, brought by a voice that we hold with anticipation. Each word contains not words, but a space, which, appearing and disappearing, they designate as a changeable space of their appearance and disappearance. In every word is the answer to the inexpressible, the refusal and attractiveness of the inexpressible."
"Book of Farewell"
Terribly annoying when the "Book of Farewell" is published under the title "Not a day without a line." It was invented by Viktor Shklovsky, who was married to his beloved woman Olesha and, it seems to me, he took his revenge posthumously: he simply made the name of the diary notes of one of the best stylists a well-worn Latin phrase.
The man who wrote Envy at the age of twenty-seven and soon fell silent almost forever, and did not manage to become a Soviet person, and even more so - a Soviet writer. The Farewell Book is Olesha's scattered memories and thoughts, which he tried to write every day, just to write. So out of his dying, restlessness and despair, generously filled with alcohol, he made great literature.
Roland Ax, Fernando Arrabal
"100 good reasons to commit suicide immediately"
This book, like, in general, everything that Ax and Arrabal wrote, is a pocket instruction on how to work and live with panic. And yes, it's terribly funny. And it is necessary.
We can say that this is a novel about the Civil War, which is considered and in which two puppies are trying to survive - but any description of the plot of "Puppies" will be flawed in advance. Some superhumanly powerful text. Because of the language in which the novel is written, one can die of delight, but better not - and then read "Pieces of the Broken to Shattered": his diaries, a collection of poems "Signals of the Last Judgment" and everything else.
"Puppies" is an unfinished (and this only makes it more surprising) novel, where people and animals (often it is not very clear who is who) live in an incessant panic and, moreover, settle it down. For me, this is a story about how a representative of the dead-end branch of evolution - a person - can make any circle of hell cozy and how this hell comes out of it, but - importantly - together with an aching tenderness for the world into which he entered. And which, most likely, will destroy - but will have time to hang the curtains.
With this book, I have earned the title of "party animal of the year". Once we decided to spend a fiercely fun Friday and left at "32.05". The fun turned out a little different for everyone: I finished reading Savinkov and was happy, but this is still a reason for jokes about me as the queen of parties. I love Savinkov with the devoted love of a teenager, because I don't understand. I look closely at all the SRs in the militant organization and try to understand what caused these often highly educated and talented boys and girls to start killing people.
Savinkov's favorite is "Pale Horse". An attempt is being made there on the life of Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich, who is killed by Ivan Kalyaev. This boy, who wrote bad poetry and blew people up, haunts me; he had an underground nickname - Poet. And the more I read about them, the less I understand. And it is interesting, as you know, what is not clear.
Well, we also have Savinkov's birthday on the same day - not that it solves it, it's just nice.
Love and awe of a person who loves paper: the book is more than a hundred years old, it is still with yaty and, as it is written on the flyleaf, “with portraits” of populist terrorists. Young Vera Zasulich, Sofya Perovskaya and others. These are Stepnyak's articles about the populists, moreover, of that time, and not memoirs many years later, such a document of the era. This book was presented to me by Lena Kostyuchenko, it bears the signature of an unknown previous owner - L. Gvarashvili. I wonder who it is, but Google does not give an answer.
"Life on an ice floe"
Apart from two books by Papanin (published in 1938 and 1972), I have many other publications about this incredible expedition on the ice floe and about polar explorers in general. This is also from a series of things that I don’t understand: what could make people give up everything and float for nine months (!) On an ice floe measuring three by five kilometers - at the very beginning, it was decreasing. “Life on an ice floe” was written by Papanin (or someone else for him), who during the Civil War was the commandant of the Crimean Cheka: he “carried out sentences” - executions. The scientific expedition was headed by an exemplary security officer. The coolest thing is to compare editions and find what the Soviet censorship has erased from the Chekist's memoirs.
In the four of Papanin's members, all the participants are amazing, but I love one more than the others - Pyotr Shirshov. This is a hydrobiologist. During World War II, he met with actress Yekaterina Garkusha, fell in love and stayed with her when his legal wife returned from evacuation. Then Garkusha was noticed by Beria, who wanted to sleep with her; she replied with a slap in the face and went to the camps for eight years on charges of treason. No title of husband could save her, who refused Beria. My daughter was one and a half years old when she was taken away from home with the wording "to the theater" - and never returned. But in Papanin's diary, Shirshov still does not know anything about this. He lives as if neither war, nor great love, nor betrayal of the so-called homeland, for the sake of which he lived for nine months on an ice floe in the middle of the ocean, will not happen, and there is only a new wonderful world ahead and everything will be fine. Will not.
1934, one year in the life"
Airships are also on the list of loves of the unfinished romantic. The book is like a calendar of the life of a plant, assembled from some absolutely beautiful scraps of reality: a plant newspaper, letters, reports, notes or inspection reports.There is a lack of feta cheese in the canteen, and workers who do not correspond to the image of a Soviet person, and the first launches of airships. In the wall newspaper, for example, you can find the following: “Shame! In the dormitory of the old construction office, for eight months, they have never mopped the floor in the corridor. The mud is incredible."
“If you ask - what is this book about, then I will answer.
About nothing. Like all great books in the world.
This book is about how I read it. As he lay on the couch. How I turned on the light when it was getting dark in the room. How he smoked while lying down, and like ashes poured anywhere. How birds screamed outside the window, and how doors slammed in distant rooms. Especially about which bookmark is best - a Chinese cut-out strip with a tassel, or a colored old flyer, or a business card of one deputy I don't need? But more often than not, this is an old travel card for twenty trips …
This is a very good and detailed book about how I read it.
And if it had all white blank pages, it would be about how I slowly turned over white blank pages."
I am a man of text, but I never believed that books - or one play - could change lives. But with Ugarov it turned out just like that. I gave up a well-established and comfortable life in Siberia and fled to Moscow to the school of Razbezhkina and Ugarov, because at some point I read his play "Bum off" and realized that either I would go to study with this person, or everything makes no sense at all … And I was not just “lucky”, but reality did the incredible and gave me a “lucky” card - I managed to work with Ugarov. Although it is difficult to call it work: it is an amazing state that, if it happens, then once in a lifetime - when your teacher, idol and part-time boss is also your friend. That is, you can know by heart the monologues from his plays, admire his texts and performances, but this does not in the least interfere with the existence of such dialogues at two o'clock in the morning: "Oh my God, MJ [Mikhail Yuryevich], I fucked at Platonov's grave." - "And how is Platonov?" - "Not resurrected."
For three years next to MJ, I have gone from when you read the text of your favorite writer, not knowing him personally, and admire; then you become friends, and you read the text, recognizing every intonation, literally hear how he would say it, argue with him somewhere; and then he dies, and you are left alone with his texts. You will have memories, photographs, videos, correspondence with him, but all the same, he will be closest in the texts. And it is with them that you will talk and make silly and stupid jokes. In fact, there are few people you can foolishly and foolishly joke with - this is some completely different category of intimacy between people. When such a person dies, you are left with his texts, with which you continue to imitate dialogue from stupid jokes, and it seems to you that there is no death. But she's there and she's a bitch. And the lyrics are an ingenious attempt to argue with her weakly.
I suffer very much that today our drama is such a supplement to the theater, and not an independent literature, because for me the playwrights Ugarov or Kurochkin are some of the best contemporary writers. Therefore, the publishing house common place will soon start publishing a series of contemporary drama "The Department of Pain". And the first in this joint project of Teatra.doc and common place will be a collection of all Doc's documentary plays over seventeen years (with the stories of their creation) - such is the history of modern Russia in non-fiction drama. And yes, all the other favorite books that I have not talked about, I will publish myself soon.